In Limbo
by MyNovember
Summary: The fine lines between forgiving and forgetting, sorrow and fear, love and hate. Beginnings and endings. Clopin x OC. ON HIATUS.
1. Introduction

**In Limbo**

_Author's Notes: Well, the actual reason I even made this account was because I've recently been on a Clopin frenzy. And (as I'm sure most of you know) it's fairly difficult to go on a Clopin frenzy without either seeing a Mary Sue or hearing fans complain about them. This fanfic was written due my finding an actual request on dA for people to create flawed female leads opposite Clopin, and I thought...yeah, I can definitely do that. In fact, sounds pretty fun AND has the possibility for copious amounts of angst! xD_

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Introduction

"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled."-Matthew, 5:6

In a guilty, furtive little space in her heart that really had no business being there, she hoped that her memories of him would someday fade. She hoped that she wouldn't rest her hand on his side of the bed and imagine the lingering warmth of his body heat there. She hoped that she wouldn't be able to look at her son's face when he wore a disgruntled expression and be startled as to how much he looked like his father. She hoped that she wouldn't find herself, on absent-minded days, setting the table for three instead of two.

But she did, and though it would be dishonest of her to say that she embraced these things, she did come to accept them. They curled into a tight little knot at the pit of her stomach and settled there, and attracted emotions like resentment that might have otherwise passed like magnets.

She hadn't gone into the marriage loving him, or loving much of anything, but she had come out of it that way, and she hated them even more for taking that from her.

It was a safe kind of love. It wasn't frightening and exhilarating and painful, but it was comforting and familiar and-in time-it came easily to her. It was born from his whispered confessions to her that he didn't quite approve of Judge Frollo's methods, and from the secure way that he held her at night, as though sure of his convictions that he wouldn't let go. And it was born from the way that he cried when he stood by her side, cradling their slick and newly-born son, and that he'd made her feel unafraid to cry herself.

When her next love found her, she was a broken woman. He put her whole, and shattered her smaller.


	2. Regarding Strong Wills

_NOTE (As of 9/5/10): If you're re-reading this chapter and feel a little weirded out; fear not, your eyes do not deceive you! Yes, I actually sat my lazy arse down and edited this ish! I would say that this marks a new chapter in the very near future, but hopefully you guys know better than to believe me at this point. _

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Chapter 1: Regarding Strong Wills

The woman was in her late twenties or early thirties. Pretty enough-high cheekbones and long eyelashes, the things that make someone conventionally attractive enough, though not quite unique in any particular way. But the marks of grief and stress had imprinted themselves on her in a way that placed her in a category somewhere between unattractive and untouchable. Coarse, premature grays worked themselves into her otherwise red-gold hair, always pinned back into a conventional updo. She carried herself in a cold, rigid way, and her skin was near-colorless and almost severely smooth, as though to rid herself of the burden of expression. Nothing revealed the chaotic thing she had become deep inside, vengeful but insecure. Strange and shy.

If she had looked that way on that day, the events that followed would have, in all likelihood, never taken place.

Marcel was four years old and more rambunctious by the day, and much as she loved her son the woman had come from a long line of mothers who used nurses and governesses, and perhaps that bafflement at childhood's natural distinctions was hereditary. And so, even though she'd half-expected him to balk at an activity such as shopping, she still ended up thoroughly distressed by day's end at her son's innate ability to wriggle out of her grasp minutes after being caught.

Arianne Vasser, as the woman was known, had just about abandoned whatever pretenses of public dignity she had and broken off into a run after the child through the busy streets; some of her hair had escaped it's pins so that it fell in lopsided red, gold and just a little coarse gray waves not quite reaching her shoulders; her back had been bent for all the people she had to weave through and obstacles she'd had to pass on the busy streets; her marble-like mask had melted in concern and bemusement, with pink staining her cheeks and an overall disposition much more befitting a woman her own age.

It was enough that, when she attracted the gypsy king's attentions, she was both attractive and touchable enough that he was always able, afterward, to see past her usual demeanor, and often broke through it without much more than a cocky smirk, as though it were ridiculous of her to believe that she could ever fool him.

It was the sound of bells at midday, she thought - and the knowledge of who the bell-ringer was - that enticed him into running to the square at the cathedral. But immediately upon arrival, he fell into a trance quite familiar to the local children as he gazed at the caravan where the puppet show was being held-or rather, being closed for the day. Arianne, being of an utterly one-track mind at the moment, took the opportunity to sneak up behind him and grab a firm hold on his wrist, and then allowed the breath she'd been holding to escape in a hiss, bending over slightly due to the pain and exhaustion from straining against her corset and petticoat layers.

"What do you think you're doing?" she scolded quietly (to avoid causing any more of a scene), but the intended harsh effect was marred by the relief in her tone. "How many times do I have to tell you not to go running off on you're own when I'm - "

"Mama." Marcel pointed up at the caravan that his mother had only barely registered was there. Arianne glanced up in the direction he had gestured to - and automatically straightened as though standing at attention. The puppeteer - a Romani whom she knew only as being a gypsy figurehead (she assumed) who was vaguely but somehow inextricably involved in the events over a half-year's past - had apparently paused from closing up his show for the day to watch them (shamelessly enough), resting his elbows on the window of the caravan, his chin in his hands, grinning mischievously.

Arianne cleared her throat. "Excuse me," she said coldly, making a brief bow and, hand still gripped firmly around Marcel's pudgy wrist, she started making her exit.

Marcel was the first to turn back around - and laugh delightedly - when a strangely-pitched voice called, "Wait!" Arianne followed her son's action with a roll of her eyes and a sense of tedium, anticipating that it would take a long time to shake off the gypsy (of course, it would take far longer than she'd ever have thought) and, indeed, he leapt through the window of the caravan while an apparent friend of his took his place in closing up shop. The gypsy held up a miniature version of himself on his hand, whom he was evidently speaking for.

"Monsieur, monsieur!" called the puppet to Marcel. "I'm sorry to trouble you, but would you happen to have a coin or two to spare?"

"Ah!" The gypsy feigned a disgusted expression. "You have so much to learn! We do not _beg_, my little friend." He bopped the doll on its head, all the while bearing an exaggeratedly sad face which clearly indicated that the punishment hurt him more than the puppet.

But, of course, the puppet persisted, and Marcel begged Arianne for money to give to it. Sighing and shooting a glare at the gypsy, she handed her son a coin, who rushed forward to hand it to the doll. In return, the comedic duo performed a small bit for a moment, and then the man put the doll away and turned his attention to Arianne, inclining his head slightly to her.

"You know, madame - "

"Madamoiselle," she corrected, a hard edge to her tone. Though as a widow she could have kept her technical title as a married woman (and she normally did), this correction was the closest thing she could come to outright vindication of this man and his people.

Sadly, he seemed oblivious. He grinned. "Madamoiselle. I scarcely recall seeing you before now. I'm sorry for keeping you; I merely meant to make introductions."

"Any lack of memory of my face is due to your own neglect. We've seen each other before." At least a hundred times; the reason she'd always assumed he was a front was because he seemed to be at the head of every gypsy attraction she saw.

She hoped that her cold tone would dissuade him from trying to make her acquaintance, but it was a vain hope. "I must have missed you," he said, and it was evident from the way he said it that he meant not to do so again.

Making a sweeping bow and removing his hat in such a dramatic way as to make Arianne wonder if he was making fun of her, he said, "My name is Clopin Trouillefou."

"Arianne Vasser." Then: 'Good day."

This time, he let them go.

On the way back to the market, where she still needed to finish buying what she required to make dinner, Arianne caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window and realized that she'd been spending the day running around with approximately half of her hair still up. Though she'd given up her career of trying to be ahead of the fashion curve since marriage, what would have been a minor embarrassment for the average woman was utterly exasperating to her. Sighing, she pulled the remaining pins out with a little more violence than was necessary.

Glancing down at Marcel as she did this, she said, "I don't want you talking to that man anymore, and I don't want you going near that caravan without me."

Her son was a boy of quiet contemplation, tall for his age and of a build that could suggest a future in the solid muscularity of his father, or the spoiled chubbiness common in the males in Arianne's family. His mother was of the very secret opinion that he was the sweetest boy she had ever met, and most days she was incredibly grateful that the person she loved most had not inherited her own disposition.

However, as she paused in her grooming to watch Marcel's face crumple just a little with that expression that she just _knew_ meant he wasn't going to protest but he was still utterly bewildered and he would be thinking - quite justifiably - that this was so unfair and that she was being prejudiced (though of course, he wouldn't be able to think of the word, specifically) and "because I said so" wasn't a real reason and it was so, _so_ unfair.

But he didn't throw the tantrum that she wouldn't even have been able to blame him for; and at his reaffirmation of her "sweetest boy on earth" notion, she softened. "I know it's hard for you to understand, Marcel, but we don't associate with gypsies. We can't. Okay?"

She looked down at him, and he seemed relieved, as though he had just figured out that whatever problem he'd just come across could be solved easily. He looked up at her with all the optimism a person could probably contain. "It's alright, mama. You don't have to worry anymore. Judge Frollo's gone now. We don't have to be afraid of making friends with them. No one will hurt us."

His reassurance made her feel an incredible amount of guilt. She wasn't afraid of associating with gypsies because she was afraid of what small-minded people would do to her. For all intents and purposes, she was one of those small-minded people. But it was a complicated subject; too complicated to explain to her young son. Too complicated, in fact, to really explain to anyone.

She didn't respond, but Marcel's cheeks dimpled and his smile still shone like the sun.

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_A/N: Like in my last story, I'm having a little trouble with Clopin's dialogue, but hopefully I'll be getting the hang of that soon enough while I'm writing him. I wanna thank my couple (post edit: whole hell of a lot) of favorite-ers/watchers (post edit: and reviewers) a whole lot, 'cause for the first couple of days I was walking around in a slump because I hadn't gotten any reviews or anything (yeah, I'm pretty vain)._

_I don't know how much I'll be updating for the next couple of weeks due to school, but winter break's coming up soon and that should be when I have another chapter up (post edit: Ha ha), which will also be when you get some background info on Arianne. Anyway, as always, constructive criticism welcome. Thanks for everything, guys!_


	3. Madame Vasser

What? A new chapter? And it's twice as long as the first two entries put together? Ladies and gents, I'm having about as difficult a time believing it as you are. There are more detailed notes at the bottom, but they're crazy long and **there are a couple of things** **I actually need you to read:** 1) I don't think this chapter is very good, which I apologize for because, truly, you deserve better after the wait. But once I realized that I actually had the chapter finished, I thought the last thing I needed to do was pick at it and end up re-writing it in shame. Maybe later.

Oh, and 2) If you're a history buff—or maybe you don't even have to be one, I dunno—you might notice that the details in this story are more appropriate for the early 1800s than the 1400s. That's because I wanted to be reasonably accurate and looked up the publishing date of HOND and based my research off of that, thinking I was being all clever. Imagine my horror when I cracked open a copy at my local bookstore and the first thing I read had the effect of, "FOUR CENTURIES AGO-" So yeah, fml. I continued writing the chapter as it was but **if you feel uncomfortable with the fact that I changed the time period, please let me know. **If enough people really find it distracting, I'll do my best to (while sobbing) go back and change it. Even though I really don't want to. _~*~*~*~because you're worth it~*~*~*~_

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"Mama, please." Marcel's voice wavered, pitching high toward the end with mild hysteria. It was apparent to Arianne that he was trying hard not to cry, his breathing hitching as he tried to form a coherent sentence. "I don't want-I don't-"

"_Mon ange._" She brushed his hair back gently from his forehead as she said it, but her voice was firm. "Your grandparents love you dearly and it'll hurt their feelings when they find out how hard you're fighting not to have to visit them. Do you want to hurt their feelings?"

"No," he said automatically, eyes wide. "But mama, I don't want to go for a whole two weeks and not even see you. Why can't you just stay, too? Please?"

"You're being silly. You love being in the country and I would only get in the way of all your fun. Two weeks is hardly this-" she snapped her fingers-"and soon you'll be crying about not being able to stay longer. Like last time, remember?"

"Can't you go the whole way?"

"It's a long drive and it was very kind of your grandparents to offer to meet us halfway. Now, that's enough fussing. Come here." And in an uncharacteristically intimate gesture, she pulled the boy against her side and rested his head in her lap. "You're only tired; it was a mistake not making you sleep longer at the last station. Rest."

"I'm not tired," he protested mildly, his voice muffled by her skirt, but she didn't yield. She stared out of the window, feigning interest in the passing sights, until Marcel's breathing evened out and she tilted her head back, lamenting not bringing a book.

She'd always hated stagecoach traveling and this was no different, especially considering that she had nothing to accomplish through it aside from an essential drop-off of her child. Still, there was little sense in having Marcel's grandparents taking the whole trip to Paris and back into the country, and she certainly wasn't entrusting his safety to any _escort_.

They arrived not terribly long after. Arianne woke Marcel gently and took the opportunity to stretch her stiff limbs. It wasn't long after that they encountered the senior Vassers, both of whom knelt down to embrace their grandson as he ran to them. Arianne stood apart, clutching Marcel's bags and shifting her gaze away from the soft-leather, sunbrowned skin of her parents in law, their unguarded welcome and the easy dignity that came from a lifetime of hard work.

Finally, the two of them noticed her, and the awkwardness was mutual, as usual. After some cordial greetings, she dropped his bags off with them and ticked off some of those crucial notes that a parent is always compelled to leave with a caretaker, which they took without much offense.

"And you'll be joining us to eat before the trip home?" said Monsieur Vasser.

Arianne insisted that she was not hungry (a lie) and skirted past their insistence that she stay before heading back. Marcel's protests were genuine enough, she knew, but she had never quite been friendly with the Vassers, and now the only thing that had once united them was a painful, faraway memory that was only more apparent when they were together. This was the reason she never simply accompanied Marcel the entire way to the Vasser home and stayed with them, as would have been customary.

The adults made small talk for a few minutes, and then Arianne kissed an obviously upset Marcel goodbye ("Be good, darling") and watched them disappear into the inn, making her way back to the stagecoach only to encounter the driver moving in the opposite direction.

"What are you doing?" she demanded with furrowed eyebrows. "We're done here; we're turning around."

The driver looked her up and down, as though trying to determine what right she thought she had to dictate to him, before snorting. "Horses are hungry; so am I. You ain't gotta eat if you don't want, but the rest of us are taking a break. You might want to get your strength up, too; rain's gonna fall soon, and it'll be hard for just the two of us to move the coach if it gets stuck in the mud."

"Excellent," she muttered to herself, and then bowed her head to the man. "Very well; be quick, please." And she climbed back into the coach, leaning her head back and closing her eyes.

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_It has not been long since she has even considered his attempted courtship of her, and only the fourth time that she has bothered to entertain him. Even so, "entertainment" usually consists of their circling her family's estate, usually in silence because they have no idea what to say to each other. She is afraid of the inevitable, and yet she wonders why he doesn't simply get it over with. She's tired of this drawn-out affair. She's tired of trying to figure out what he is playing at and how she can get out of it, when she knows there is no way out._

_He's plucked a vibrantly pink but ultimately common flower whose variety she never cared enough to ask. He turns it over and over, his nerves evident, and unintentionally crumples its petals in brusque hands. _

_"Arianne?" He's never addressed her as such. Her stomach sinks, but she puts on a brave face._

_"Yes?"_

_"From the moment I saw you-Will you do me the honor of-" He wants to sound more poetic than he is, but it's hopeless. He looks helplessly to her, but she won't build her own cage. He will have to take on that responsibility on his own._

"Will you marry me?"

_They stop walking. She has always been exceptionally skilled at holding her tongue and there is much to be risked by not using that talent, but here she is standing at the edge of the earth and there is no doubt that she will be pushed. What can she do, but fall with dignity?_

_"Do I have a choice, Monsieur Vasser?"_

_There is a long, stretching silence, and Arianne holds his gaze until he averts his._

_That is the only victory she will have, and she holds it tight as she plummets to the sea._

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Madame Bellard could honestly say that she loved her job.

She was handsomely paid, had short hours, and for the first time in her career, was able to afford her own (albeit very modest) home not far from her employer's. And, even more incredibly, she actually found her employer fairly tolerable, though this was not due to any virtue on the part of the other woman; Madames Bellard and Vasser got along well because of a mutual appreciation of discretion and solitude, and because Madame Vasser was more tolerant of meanness than most people. Bellard had never been a pleasant person or even a particularly good-hearted one, and so it probably did not say much about Vasser that they got along reasonably well.

That said, Bellard was not without her strong points. An incredibly old woman who had been involved in various, toiling forms of servitude since her far-away youth, her small and pixielike frame had only intensified (and become considerably more wrinkled) with age; she was untouched by mental or bodily shortcomings and had never protested against an order or even took an opportunity to do a less than adequate job. She had simply never seen the point.

She was also invaluable as a servant because she was not a gossip. So long as she got her substantial salary (Arianne was uncommonly generous in this regard because it meant that Bellard would not have to live in her home), the most she did was blink at Vasser's eccentricities: the fact that she asked Bellard take her child to Mass and never went herself; the inconvenient number of times per week that she insisted upon having her baths prepared; her preference to having the cleaning done when she was not home. Bellard never replied when anyone tried to goad her into talking badly about the woman's odd preferences, and she certainly didn't have the time to ponder them herself.

Mme Vasser, as predicted, arrived home sans brat mid-afternoon, and looked surprised to find her everything-under-the-sun servant there. "Bellard. I didn't expect you home. But it's good that you're here; would you mind-"

"The water for your bath is boiling, Madame. I will be here when you are ready for your dressing, if you intend to go out today."

Arianne blinked, and then granted Bellard a rare smile, which the older woman did not return. "You never fail to impress. No, don't get up; I'll prepare it myself."

Bellard bowed her head slightly. "I'll await you in your chambers."

Arianne poured the boiling water in the tub and allowed it to cool only slightly before getting in. Her tolerance of hot water and skin scrubbed raw was strengthened by her want of cleanliness, which surpassed that of most of her peers. She'd always hated having a usually too-thin layer of perfume to cover up the odor of bathing less than once a week. Wrinkling her nose in distaste at the thought, she rubbed her pink-from-heat skin brutally with soap and pushed a lock of hair away from her forehead, thinking of how she had to hurry so that she could bathe Marcel while the water was still hot.

Oh.

Her shoulders hunched slightly as she realized Marcel was no longer there. Unlike in her youth, the freedom of solitude wasn't as appealing as it had once been, and she often found herself feeling rather lost without her son to worry about. When he was gone, there were always other things to mull over, and none so pleasant as he.

She shook her head decisively and scrubbed her scalp before drying off and heading to her room. She pulled on the delicate, off-white chemise and allowed Bellard to help her into, and then tighten her corset, placing a hand on the wall for balance. It was a quiet routine, long since perfected, and there was a kind of comfort to the sounds of crinkling fabric and nothing else. They pulled on petticoats but, before the gown, Arianne dismissed the servant without looking at her.

The first time she'd done this (refusing assistance in being helped with her outermost layer of clothing was unusual) Bellard had paused for only a moment, then inclined her head and exited the room. And that was the last thought she gave it, even though she would never be asked to stay long enough to help Vasser into her outermost layers of clothing again. And this, essentially, was what united the two women.

After she left presently, her employer strung an undecorated, sheathed knife between two layers of petticoats. The first time she performed this ritual, she was awkward enough to actually drop the thing so that it clanged onto the floor. She'd scrambled to pick it up and for several moments stood stock-still, eyes closed and heart pounding. She wondered if she really needed to, or even could, do this. Soon enough, though, it became like the heavy, inconvenient but stylish clothing; a necessity, for reasons she could not quite understand.

Of course, as she tore and sewed discreet slits in her dresses near where the blade was to be located, it occurred to her that the weapon was actually much more utilitarian than her costumes.

It also occurred to her that she might be losing her mind.

She'd accepted that the same way she did the knot in her stomach.

Though she didn't make it apparent very often and was quite sure her sentiments were not reciprocated, Arianne was fond of the Vassers. They didn't have any money to help with, and were rather reserved in her presence (especially since Ludic's death), but through them she caught glimpses of a family life so different from her own that she could not help but be attracted to it. On the occassions that she went to visit them with her husband, they tried their best to be warm to her, but were usually put off by her awkwardness, which generally manifested itself in coldness that they must have assumed was because they were beneath her station.

Autumn ensured that Arianne was not to find much in the way of novel local attractions, and she'd long since given up the social gatherings with the upper crust that she'd once taken part in. "All dressed up with nowhere to go" was a bit of an understatement in this case, considering how much time it took just to _be_ fashionable in that damned town, and how (relatively) quaint the neighborhood was in which she lived. She ended up taking a carriage up to her old home, where she'd lived with her family once upon a time and she knew that there were a great deal more opportunities in which one could spend one's money on trivialties.

She ended up in a shopping district, outside of a perfume shop that had been around for as long as she could remember. She recalled passing it even as a little girl, its colorful, slender glass bottles appealing to what she thought at the time was a deep yearning within her-as though the line between mucky childhood and refinement was as neat a separation as the glass she wasn't allowed to cross.

Of course, when she became a young lady she was allowed to buy as much of it as she wanted, and she rarely remembered to wear any of it, though she spent ages arranging and rearranging the bottles on her vanity, trying to recapture the spark it once awakened in her.

She stood now leaning quite inappropriately against the glass window that she no longer revered, blocking its impeccably arranged bottles and boxes and ribbons from the customers it hoped to attract, and wishing for all the world that she could bring herself to care. Wishing that she wasn't thinking of Marcel, of Ludic, of the damn Vassers and how they had never liked her and why should they.

It wasn't long before a sales clerk stepped outside-to berate her for blocking their store, no doubt. She stood from her leaning position and turned to him to half-hearted apology, only to find that he was smiling at her. He was young, very young, with an unattractively shiny face but a smoothly friendly disposition. "Madame Vasser," he said with a smile ("Do I know you?" she thought, made a little irate by the absolute lack of anonymity she had). "How delightful it is to see you-it has been so long. Can I interest you in one of our new Eastern-influenced fragrances?"

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Three Asian-blossom-flavored 19th-century retail therapy purchases later, and on the verge of being persuaded to make a fourth, Arianne was beginning to feel rather distracted from her miseries; she hadn't been pampered in such a long time and she'd forgotten just how thoroughly delightful superficial pleasures could be. She realized quickly that the shiny-faced young man did _not_ remember her from the days she still visited this place and was probably informed by one of the other employees, but he was a rather talented salesperson, even engaging in easy banter with her after her sly suggestion that one of the perfumes smelled "rather familiar...perhaps from _Maison Guerlain?_" And even though she'd half-suspected snide whispers from her former peers and half-suspected them to be all-too-enthusiastic in greeting her, she mostly got polite nods from them, which she returned. All in all, it was a rather cathartic enjoyment, and it was...nice.

But, because this was _her_ life, it crashed down around her fairly rapidly, starting with a terribly familiar figure walking past the window. A figure in full costume and being followed by a troupe of delighted children, like some mischevious mythological child-thief she had never paid enough attention to when she was being tutored. A figure from whom she averted her eyes as rapidly as she could, but not before they met his. And she couldn't see him and she didn't know him at all, but she knew, she just _knew _he wasn't going to leave her alone this time.

She'd seen him since their introduction, of course; that had been weeks ago. At first, due to some mixture of paranoia and ego, she was terrified that he would notice her instantly upon being in the same vicinity as she, but he never seemed to, and gradually she began to think that perhaps he was too self-centered to be as interested as her initial impression of him led her to believe. Her last, lingering traces of fear of him passed when she saw him with a group of other gypsies; their eyes met and, without so much as a second glance, he passed over her. And yet now, here he was, and here she was, among the group of people most likely to scorn her for associating with him...

Seconds later, her back turned from the entrance, she heard the stomps and squeals of that tiny army swarming into the shop-and she winced. Meanwhile, though she refused to turn around as everyone else had done to get a good look at the spectacle, that shopkeeper she'd been speaking to was asking someone to _please_ restrain his children and then added (in a rule likely made up on the spot) that he was not in the store's dress code and he should leave as soon as possible, thank you.

"EXCUSE ME?" demanded the gypsy, loudly and with exaggerated offense. Arianne, no longer able to resist, turned a little to find that he was brutally poking the taller man with his index finger, his thin chest puffed up as though to make himself seem more formidable. All around, the customers were a worried sort of silent. It was all so ridiculous; he was ridiculous, they were ridiculous for taking him seriously, it was ridiculous that this was happening to her, of all people...

Arianne broke the silence by unintentionally allowing some sort of quiet, half-laugh half-sigh sound to break free of her throat. And just like that, the heads of half the people in the room snapped to look at her, save from the ones who were attempting to avoid or restrain the children still running oblivously about the shop.

And just like that, Monsieur Trouillefou shoved the salesclerk out of the way, suddenly very happy again.

She thought distantly that surely there was something she had done that she couldn't remember. Something that would warrant what was so obviously a punishment against her.

"Madame Vasser!" he cried in delight. Obviously a punishment.

"Oh, excuse me-" and here his expression became purely wicked. "Mademoiselle Vasser."

Dear God.

People had turned and had their eyebrows raised at this scene. The correction she had made to him as a coded reminder that her love was dead by his people's hands was now being used by him to make her seem like she was...advertising herself. Of course, no one watching would know this, but the blush climbing her neck would be enough to let their imaginations run wild. She cleared her throat to defuse the situation.

"Monsieur Trouillefou," she said, polite and cold. "How surprising to see you."

"_Really?_" he replied with emphasis, like the subject of her surprise was of great interest to him. "But, mademoiselle, you said yourself that we've met enough times that I should know you by memory! Don't you recall? On the square of Notre-"

"I recall," she said through gritted teeth. "Would you care to take this conversation outside and refrain from disturbing these good people any further?"

"Good people?" He looked around in a very deliberately confused manner, and to avoid further embarrassment she walked out without him, though he followed quickly after, calling out something to his troupe of children, who remained in the store in a manner about as destructive as it had been before.

Arianne paced back and forth in front of the shop window, trying to regain her composure. Looking back within the shop, she said in a voice quick as her steps, "You really will earn a reputation if you let your..._accessories_ keep that up."

She didn't get a look at his face as he spoke, but she heard him scoff. "Accessories? Reputation? Who _exactly_ do you think I am?"

Arianne let out a long breath and stopped, facing him. "Just tell me why you're doing this." If no divine force was punishing her, she could only assume that he was. It crossed her mind that her connection with her husband, the soldier, was the cause.

In the heeled, slightly elevated boots she was wearing, she was the same height as the relatively short man, and it made her feel more assured as she stared steadily into the eyes behind his mask. She realized that she was building him up, and had perhaps been doing so since their meeting, into some formidable opponent-perhaps some rebel without a cause, uncaring of the boundaries between the two of them that she so heavily relied on. In many ways, he was her opposite, and that automatically rang an alarm within her. Except that now, he seemed so serious, as if comprehending the genuine distress he was triggering within her.

And as these thoughts raced through her mind, perhaps even in response to them, he laughed.

"Because I can" was his answer. Ridiculously simple, ridiculously obvious. Quite frankly, she was offended. But she found that she was unable to decide what to do or say in response; the way she usually channelled her rage-which was to say, through cold discourse layered with sarcasm and veiled by formality-was sort of ill-fitting for his frankness. In fact, she thought the only appropriate response might be to leave without so much as a goodbye. But before she could put much thought into it, his interest in the topic of discussion had apparently waned.

"And where is your little man?" He held his hand down by his knees to indicate height.

She had recovered enough to say, automatically, "I don't see where that's any of your concern."

"My sincerest apologies." It didn't sound sincere. "But I think you should keep him with you. He brings out..."

She had turned back to the shop window, feeling more than a little indignant that he seemed to think of himself as more than a stranger. But at his pause, she found herself looking up at him out of the corner of her eye.

"He brings out?" she prompted.

He had stopped smiling and actually no longer seemed to be looking at her, but at some undefined point over her shoulder. At her voice, though, his eyes snapped into focus and he grinned. "He brings out your prettiest face."

She understood that statement only enough to know that she should feel scandalized by it, and so she did. Still, she didn't want to lose face, so she decided to address the probablem head-on. "I find it strange, sir, that you've managed to act as though you know me well enough to make such statements within minutes of our meeting.

He laughed at her. "_Mademoiselle, _you seem quite offended by my presence. I assure you that you've spent too much time with the soldiers and that we gypsies are really not as vulgar as you might think."

"My _husband_ was a soldier. And I assure you, he was nothing but kind to your people."

"Then the world is a worse place for having lost him," he replied, looking past her again. She turned to see what or who had grabbed his attention, but it was difficult to tell, and in a moment he was speaking again. "But I'm afraid your persistent coldness has me stricken at the heart, mademoiselle, and I must cut our conversation short-to your delight, I'm sure-to give myself time to recover." He bowed, much more shortly than before, and started to walk past her, seeming distracted. And Arianne thought that it was unlikely he would persue her friendship any further.

"He's with his grandparents," she called without quite meaning to.

Monsieur Trouillefou stopped and turned around, looking genuinely quizzical. Before she could stop herself, Arianne continued, "His father's parents; he goes to spend time with them a few times a year. They live out in the country."

His responding smile was different from the ones before in a way she didn't know him well enough to identify. "They sound like wonderful people."

"They are," she managed to reply, feeling emotional for no real reason.

He held his hand out for hers and she offered it. "Now was that so difficult?" he said, before bowing, kissing her hand, and saying, "Madame Vasser."

"Monsieur Trouillefou," she replied.

They turned to walk in opposite directions, and Arianne found after a few moments that she was making a conscious effort not to smile. This effort turned out to be in vain when the perfumers' door opened to the sounds of shattering glass and what sounded like an endless supply of children squealing their way out of the store.

* * *

_"Do I have a choice, Monsieur Vasser?"_

_There is a long, stretching silence, and Arianne holds his gaze until he averts his._

_"I...don't hold it against you, if that's what you're asking."_

_"I'm a very direct person, Monsieur. I asked you if I have a choice."_

_It quickly becomes apparent that he will not answer, and it is with some sado-masochistic satisfaction that Arianne begins walking again. "Don't expect my family to welcome you, but if we play our cards right I might manage to retrieve some semblance of my inheritance-" But he grabs at her upper arm, and she pulls back in alarm._

_"You want the truth, Arianne?"_

_She regains her footing, her cool demeanor. "It's all I'd bother to ask of you."_

_"I don't think I'll ever get you to love me, to really love me back." Then, stronger: "But when I look at you...I don't know if anyone could."_

_Something in what he says stings, but...it's reasonable. Very reasonable._

_Arianne takes his hands in hers and retrieves the flower without looking at it. "Well, at least we're not pretending." And as they begin walking again, she lets it fall from her hold, never once turning around to see its broken body._

* * *

Arianne spent most of the rest of the evening pondering the events of the day.

She realized that it was very scary to have no friends, and that the real reason she made things less chilly with Monsieur Trouillefou was that he would very likely make a good friend for someone like her. Invaluable, even.

She undressed and removed her knife from its hiding place without thinking, and then stopped, looking at it as something clicked into place.

An invaluable friend.

_Invaluable._

* * *

_Remember at the beginning, when I said this would be the part where I left extensive author's notes? Wellllll I was looking over those and decided it was all just rambling and, you know, I've put you through enough. If you have any questions or corrections, though, feel free to add them in your reviews or whatevs and I'll do my best to address them. Anyway, thank you SO much for your patience, orrr if you have a lack thereof I totally don't blame you. Look out for the next chapter, coming in 2020!...Just kidding. (Kind of.) No, seriously. I swear I'm going to finish this._


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